The planet was electrical. Thunder filled the air with sonic booms as lightning crackled around dark masses of clouds. Every soul in Razmuthar was filled with anticipation. Tonight, for the first time in three thousand years, would be the Games. A legend to most of the planet’s citizens, the competition was said to happen only in the event that the previous monarch died a sudden death. Anyone could enter, and only the worthy would fight down to tooth and nail to be crowned the new ruler. In the three millennia since Razmuthar broke off from Terra and ascended to the skies, there had never been a sudden death of the monarch. However, only a week ago, the king was found in his chamber, a saber plunged into his chest. The whole planet had reared its head in anger. Who, in all the years of peace and prosperity, would dare murder King Caspian?
After the initial uproar, the Supreme Council snapped into action. The king’s murder case was swiftly taken care of. Chambers were sterilized, attendants were sworn to secrecy, coroners were told (or rather, threatened) to perform the best autopsy they had ever performed. 72 hours after the death was proclaimed, banners appeared all over Razmuthar.
The Games will commence in three days. Those wishing to enter may come to the Arena and let three drops of their blood fall onto the Infinity Stone. Anyone who is worthy will be allowed to compete for the crown. May the strongest survive.
The air was charged. All across the capital, buildings flashed red lights - the sign that they would be closed indefinitely. A fervent glow emanated from the center of the planet - the Arena. Seas of spectators roared from the stands circling the space, robbing anyone who entered of their hearing. They were getting restless - the first wave would begin soon. Brokers from every corner, every cramped nook of the city, had placed their biggest bets yet on this show - it was to be spectacular.
Just as the crowd was beginning to bubble up into a riot, the Arena turned pitch black, and neon lines raced through the raised stands, lighting the obsidian-glass floor with a complicated grid pattern that was soon to reek of bloodshed and triumph. The sea of faces roared in unison as one bloodthirsty monster.
The first contestant stepped onto the grid, out of an unseen panel in the arena’s side. He seemed to have a fanatical obsession with the color black, his entire appearance indistinguishable from the onyx floor if it weren’t for his fair, milky white skin, practically glow in the dark among the black surfaces. The thick, studded Tevkon armor he wore, combined with his violently spiked black mohawk and the black grazeknives he spun menacingly in his palms, made the audience mutter. He looked awfully similar to a Clan Warrior. What was a member of the most notorious exiled tribe doing, competing for Razmuthar’s throne?